


Losing with Grace

by Jubalii



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Childhood, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Just Riveras Being Riveras, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Rival Relationship, Sibling Rivalry, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 02:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14415696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: Enrique Rivera is a loser. He’s small, weak, and easy pickings for any bully that wants to waste time pushing him around. Even his own siblings shake their heads, considering him a lost cause. But even he draws the line at being weaker than a girl.So he lies.





	Losing with Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enrique isn't having a very good day.  
> Thankfully, Abuelita Coco is a good listener.

“¡Más rápido!”

_Faster!_

He felt the burning slap against his palm and shot like a jackrabbit, the wind in his hair. The cheers of his team became a mindless roar, drowned by the frantic pulse throbbing behind his eardrums as his feet hit the ground with enough force to jostle his thin limbs. He dared not take his eyes from the white line that marked the finish, cheap spray paint marring the dusty earth.

_Almost there… a little further…._

He began to pant, lungs aching as they tried to fill with air. He’d been practicing for weeks, but he’d still started too fast. Now he was paying the price, muscles burning. He couldn’t stop, though, or even slow his pace. He couldn’t face what might happen if he gave up before reaching the end. He had to give it his all, ignoring the rolling nausea filling his empty stomach. He leaned forward, trying to use his lanky form to his advantage.

 _Here_! _I’m going to make it_!

A breathless smile crossed his lips, arms reaching for the glory of being the first, the winner, the champion. But just as he readied himself to leap over the line and into the tumult of his victory, it was snatched from him. His opponent passed in a final burst of speed, smooth as a bullet and just as deadly. They soared over the finish line, and he followed only inches behind. But what did inches matter, when he’d come in too late?

He skittered to a stop, nearly falling flat on his face as he sank to his knees in the dust. He gave himself over to the pain in his scrawny legs, coughing as his lungs choked him in search of fresh air. The opposing team chanted their victory, a huddle of happy students dancing to the sound of their proven prowess. His own teammates huddled around him as well, though he now expected blows instead of friendly pats on the back.

“Aw, Enrique!”

“Tch! Did you expect anything else?”

“Jeez, man! Can’t you do anything right?”

Even if he had the capacity to answer, what could he say? They were justified in their anger; he’d lost them the race. He didn’t bother to gather the strength for a reply, continuing to hack as the sweat dripped from the end of his nose. A shadow fell over him and he flinched instinctively, preparing for the first kick. No one would defend him unless the teacher came forward, and he was too busy congratulating the winners.

But no kidney punch, or jab to the ribs. It was only Gloria, bending down and brushing back the sweat-slicked hair from his forehead before pounding his back in what was supposed to be a helpful manner. She dragged him to his feet, clucking like a mother hen and dusting the worst of the dirt from his shorts. The wannabe bullies—those that wouldn’t hesitate to take their frustration out on him—were temporarily held at bay by her upperclassman jersey. 

“Come on!” she fussed, trying to make him stand on his own. He trembled, his leg jellied after the strenuous race. He heard muffled laughter behind him and blushed, wishing they didn’t all know Gloria was his older sister. It would have been better if she didn’t even bother; he didn’t mind the bullies. Most of the time, he could avoid them if he acted smart and kept his head low. If he came home with a few more scrapes and bruises than usual, no one batted an eye. He could just say he’d been playing.

It was really her that he’d run so hard for. Gloria was only a year older, but she and their older brother Berto were always teasing him for being the littlest, the wimp, _el debilucho_. He’d thought… if he’d could win just _once_! Just to prove that he could keep up, that he wasn’t the baby of the family just because he was the youngest. But no, his bragging rights had vanished in the wind, leaving him even worse off than before. Gloria would run home and tell Berto about his failure, and he would have nothing to look forward to other than merciless teasing and, if his brother was in a ‘playful’ mood, a headlock.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she muttered, mistaking his expression for weakness. She whispered it so that only he could hear, but the words still cut like a knife. “You didn’t even have to run that far.”

“ _Cállate_ ,” he mumbled, pushing her away and dusting off his own jersey. He looked up for the first time, taking in the moods of his classmates. Most of them were just irritated, but a few repeat offenders had the promise of pain in their eyes. He ignored them, facing the more neutral of his team and wincing. “Sorry, guys. I tried—”

“It’s alright,” one of the upperclassmen boys said. He shrugged offhandedly, more annoyed than angry. “We’ll win next week.”

“Yeah,” a girl from his own class added with a snicker. “When he’s pushed back to the end of the line!”

“Really, I don’t know why anyone chooses you for anything, Enrique.” He muffled a grunt as one of his worst tormentors pushed his shoulder a little _too_ hard to be anything friendly.

“More like En- _weak_ -que.” This was met with a chorus of mocking laughter, and he felt a hot was of shame drench him from head to toe. Gloria advanced on the ridiculer with raised fists, but before anyone could move the teacher was standing over them with a frown.

“Hey, what’s going on here?”

“Nothing, Coach.” They smiled innocently, no one daring to stand up for Enrique or to even hint at their misdeeds. The coach glanced over them, clearly not believing a word and yet either uninterested—or uncertain—enough to ask further questions.

“Well come on.” He nodded to where the other team was already breaking back into the upper and lower classes, forming two lines. “It’s time to head back to the school.”

“ _S_ _í_ , Coach.” One of the bigger boys waited until the teacher turned before raising his own fists, laughing when Enrique flinched. They slowly dispersed, leaving Gloria alone with her brother as they walked to join their other classmates. Gloria frowned at him, shaking her head; the bun she’d taken to wearing lately bounced in time to her movements.

“Why do you let them push you around like that?” she accused.

“I dunno.” He kicked at a patch of bare earth, unable to meet her eyes. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, you should!”

“Gloria!” A group of girls called her, and she waved at them to hold on.

“You’re eight years old now, dummy. You might as well toughen up.” She gave him one last punch, barely enough to graze his arm, before turning and running to catch up with her friends.

“Yeah, whatever.” He yanked at the hem of his jersey, wishing he could fake being sick as well as some of the other kids. It would be worth the boredom to spend time in the nurse’s office, just to keep from having to deal with his classmates the rest of the day.

“ _Oye_.” He looked up to see the girl who’d beaten him standing before him, grinning. She’d come over to rub it in, from the looks of things. He stared blankly at her, waiting for the inevitable mockery to start. Might as well get it over with…. “Guess I’m the winner,” she boasted, hands on her hips. “But, really, it was a good race. You _almost_ beat me.” 

He didn’t know the girl’s name. He didn’t play with girls at recess, and she was still fairly new. Her family had moved from some town up north to Santa Cecelia, and while she was in his class she sat on the other side of the room. He had never spoken to her before today. He didn’t know what to make of her words. They sounded teasing, but there was a compliment in there somewhere. He didn’t know how to deal with that. He wasn’t used to being complimented by anyone besides his parents, and they were _supposed_ to think he was decent.

“I let you win, I hope you know.” The words were confident and pompous; the moment they left his mouth, he wished that he could pull them back. They sounded like what they were—mean and unwarranted. It was just pushing his bullies’ anger from him to someone else, someone he had a chance of being rude to and getting away with it. But deep down, buried under his injured pride, was the thought that he could never, _ever_ admit that a girl had beat him. Not only would Berto be utterly disappointed, but he’d be touted as a wimp for the rest of his life.

He couldn’t bear the thought of that. He had to salvage what little machismo he could.

The girl’s smile faltered. She chewed the inside of her cheek, brow furrowing as if his words had hurt. Then, as if realizing what she was doing, she squared her shoulders and glowered.

“You did not!”

“I did,” he insisted, crossing his arms.

“Oh yeah?” Good, now _this_ was a game he knew well. He had two siblings; one girl was nothing. He could go head to head with Berto for hours, chasing meaningless circles around each other in an attempt to get the last word in.

“Yeah!”

“Oh yeah?!”

“Yeah!!”

“Oh _yeah_?!” The coach’s whistle made them both pause, turning to see that they were in danger of being left behind by the class. They both hurried to join the others, the girl taking her place near the front of the alphabet while he sidled into line between Ramos and Sánchez. The girl turned back, looking at the track field, and he caught her eye.

“ _Yeah!_ ” he mouthed, getting in the last word. She stuck her tongue out at him, nose crinkling before turning on her heel with a huff. Her long ponytail swung, catching the boy behind her in the face. He muffled a laugh behind his hand when the boy complained, her apology shushed by the teacher as the lines began to move.  

At least he won _something_ today.

* * *

“Don’t tell!”

“Oh, I’m telling!” Gloria pranced just ahead, milking her news for all it was worth. Enrique followed just behind, grabbing helplessly at the straps of her book satchel.

“Gloria, don’t _tell_!”

“I’m telling everyone,” she sing-sang, pirouetting in the middle of the street. “Our poor widdle baby brother can’t win one widdle bitty wace.” He swung at her, missing by a mile as she danced out of his way. “Wait until _hermano_ hears about this!”

“Don’t tell him!” He stopped, stomping his foot before hurrying to catch up to her. If he let her get home first, it was all over. The least he could do was walk home with her and have just a _little_ fighting chance at getting Berto’s attention before she did. It was worth the danger of making him angry if it meant he was too irritated to listen to Gloria. After all, he was nearly six years older, a teenager. He didn’t always have time to be hanging around with them.

A ponytail caught his eye and he turned, watching the girl as she walked past him. The way she and her friend were headed, they were going to turn at the corner. Maybe she lived down near the river? Or on the other side of town, near the cemetery. It didn’t really matter to him; they were just girls. He wasn’t going to finding them and asking them to play anytime soon.

 _But_. That face she made, tongue stuck out as far as it would go, dark eyes blazing…. It flickered in his mind, and the more he thought about it the angrier he got. Before he knew what he was doing, he stomped past Gloria. Eyeing the girl’s ponytail like the finish line in gym class, a voice in the back of his mind told him to _stop, stop, don’t do it_! He ignored it as easily as Gloria had ignored him, his hand reaching out to grab a fistful of thick, dark hair and—

“ _OW_!” It felt so good to yank, pulling like a bell cord and feeling the easy give of her loose hair tie. But then it was over, and he was left with strands caught between his fingers, stumbling back as the girl turned on him. She put a hand to the back of her head, mouth open and eyes wide as her shock turned to fury. “What was that for!?” He found he was holding his breath, and released it in a quick whoosh of air.

“For thinking you’re better than me.” He saw Gloria staring at him out of the corner of his eye. For the first time, he realized the girl could run and get a teacher. She could tattle on him and get him into a lot of trouble. Not only at school, but with his parents; Mamá and Papá wouldn’t want to hear about him being mean to _anyone_ at school, much less a girl.

“Humph!” The girl tightened her ponytail and tossed it, nose in the air. “I don’t _think_ that. I _know_.” He opened his mouth to refute, but the girl’s friend grabbed her shoulder and shot him a mean glare.

“Come on, Luisa. Let’s go.”

“Right.” They dismissed him with another curt glance, turning and sauntering away. He was left on the sidewalk, the loose strands slipping as his fist opened. Gloria came up to him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

“Don’t tell Mamá,” he warned her sharply.

“What? That you bullied a little girl?” she scoffed. “No way. That makes _me_ look dumb by comparison.” She paused and their eyes met. “Still… I’m surprised at you.” Something passed between them, and in that moment he felt her regard for the first time. As if she was actually on his side for once. Then in a flash it was gone. “Enrique’s got a girlfriend, Enrique’s got a girlfriend.”

“¡¿ _Qué_?!” He was utterly taken aback by the change in tone, letting her hop around him while he processed this new taunt. “I don’t?”

“When you pull a girl’s hair, that means you like her!” Gloria crowed, chest puffing as she imparted the knowledge. He’d never heard of that before, but comprehension swept over him as he realized what she was about to do. _Oh **no**_ ; it would be far worse than losing some dumb race!

“No, Gloria! No, I don’t like her!” Gloria smirked, turning and dashing off in a mad sprint. “No!”

“Ha-ha!” He chased her home, but his legs weren’t made for such a long run and they’d already been taxed by the race. He had to stop, leaning against a wall, and by the time the familiar shoe sign loomed just over the horizon he knew it was too late. _Gotta find Mamá, gotta find_ —

“Woah there, Casanova!” He let out a strangled yelp as he was picked up mid-leap, two beefy arms separating him from his satchel before tossing him easily to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, trying to run somewhere, _anywhere_ , but Gloria appeared just in time to block his exit.

“¡Berto, _sueltame_!” His voice cracked on a high note, feet kicking as his older brother pushed him against the wall. “Go away!”

“Not until I hear what you have to say, Romeo.” Gloria laughed, standing to the side and picking up his books while Berto took the role of ringleader. “A little birdy told me _you_ have a girlfriend.”

“I don’t!” he wailed pathetically, running out of breath as he continued to fight for his freedom. “I really don’t! Stop….”

“Don’t be a crybaby.” Berto picked him up by the collar, keeping him from slumping all the way to the ground. “I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

“Leave me alone,” he stammered, glaring at Gloria and holding out a hand for his books.

“What’s going on around here!?” There was an all too familiar whistling sound; anyone near enough to hear it was already too late. Berto squawked as the _chancla_ whapped against the side of his head, beating him back. Enrique breathed a sigh of relief, watching with a laugh as Gloria ducked only to be smacked on the backswing. “How many times have I told you to leave your brother alone?! You gang up on him like some punks on the street!”

“We weren’t doing anything, Mamá!” Berto denied, hands over his head as their mother advanced for round two.

“Get inside and get back to that polisher, young man!” Mamá pointed the chancla in the direction of the shop, and Berto meekly hurried towards the door. “And you, little missy! There’s a front counter that needs minding.”

“ _S_ _í_ , Mamá.” Gloria shook her head, following Berto inside as Mamá rounded on him. He blanched, expecting the _chancla_ (Mamá sometimes liked to do these things by threes, just in case they were all at fault), but she only grabbed his face and pressed a thousand little kisses over his cheeks.

“¡ _Ay_ , _pobrecito_! They always like to pick on you, I know.” She peppered his cheeks and then squeezed him to her breast, her plump arms like anacondas choking the life from him. “Come on, come inside. Your papá is ready to show you how to hammer using Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe’s favorite techniques.”

“I thought Tía Victoria was going to show me sewing,” he managed to say, jaw clenched by the force of her arms holding him to her chest. There was an uncertain pause, and then he was released.

“A change of plans,” Mamá said, her smile too tight and voice too cheery. “Victoria has a little headache today, so she’s resting until supper. Come, come: Papá is ready for you.” She pushed him along ahead of her, taking his schoolbooks as they entered the shop.

Gloria was already climbing onto the stool, her feet kicking as she waited for a customer. They were both too little to help make shoes like Berto, but Gloria knew how to take money and count up change under Mamá’s guidance and he was learning by watching. Berto stooped over the polishing wheel, his tongue stuck out at an angle as he carefully slid the shoe over the fast-moving surface.

Papá was waiting for him, Mamá’s stool at his side while Tía Victoria’s sat empty. Other stools were pushed against the wall, unneeded; he could name their occupants as easily as he could point out their photos on the ofrenda every year. Papá Julio, the Tíos Oscar and Felipe, Mamá Imelda, and just last year Tía Rosita. Even though they’d all passed on, he felt as if their ghosts sat on those stools and watched him as he learned the sacred art of shoemaking.   

“Enrique has a girlfriend,” Gloria spouted, before he had time to sit down. He turned on her in an instant, finger raised to object, but it was too late. Berto snorted, twisting the heel of the shoe over the wheel and nearly losing it.

“Oh?” Papá smiled at him in his calm, amicable way. “Does he?”

“No!”

“You do too.” Gloria primped herself, tightening her bun as she turned on the stool. The balance shifted and she nearly fell off, hands flying out to the counter to right herself before she tipped backwards. “She’s in his class at school.”

“Of course he does,” Mamá cooed, ruffling his hair. “Our sweet _angelito querido cielito_ is the handsomest boy in his class! I bet he has all the girls falling over him.” She pinched his cheeks, murmuring more sweet nothings to her baby boy as she showered him with affection. That was the _furthest_ thing from the truth, and as he fought his way out of her grasp he saw Gloria making gross kissy-faces at him. His cheeks burned, not just from the force of Mamá’s pinching, and he inched away from them all to stand in the center of the room.

“I don’t have a girlfriend!” Papá continued to smile, and Mamá clasped her hands beneath her cheeks. It was clear that they didn’t believe him, and to his horror he felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, building in his throat. Why did they all think he was just some dumb baby who didn’t know what he was talking about?! “I don’t,” he repeated, hating the babyish whine to the words. Berto chuckled under his breath and suddenly the room grew too hot. He couldn’t bear it anymore. Ignoring his mother’s call, he pushed away from the workbench and ran from the room.

He had no clear idea of where he was going, stumbling through the house and choking back his tears. It wasn’t until he heard a sweet, gentle voice calling to him that he paused, turning and walking slowly back to the kitchen. Abuelita was at the stove, stirring something that smelled a lot like supper. She turned to him, her careworn face full of concern. She turned down the eye, wobbling slightly as she moved to sit at an outturned chair.

“Enrique?” she asked, smiling as she held out her hand. “What’s wrong, _mijo_?” Without another word he ran into the comforting embrace he knew waited for him. While Mamá liked to squeeze him forcefully, Abuelita’s hugs were often just the right amount of pressure. He burrowed into her soft shawl, breathing in the scents clinging to the dyed wool and quietly letting just two tears slip out: one from each eye. It wasn’t crying, not really. He was too old to cry. But Abuelita would never tell anyone about those two vagrant tears.

“Abuelita….” He sniffed, letting her pick him up and put him on her knee. He leaned into the folds of her neck, his cheek rubbing against one soft white braid. He loved his abuela, his Mamá Coco. She was warm and comforting, full of funny stories about Mamá Imelda, his great-grandma. She had a trunk full of old shoes, fashioned into toys made by her tíos, the twins. She told him stories of when his own mamá was his age. She was full of good things and knew about nearly everything, wise and powerful. Even Mamá listened to her, and she bossed _everyone_ around.

“Here, now.” Her gnarled fingers ran over his hair, smoothing where Mamá had mussed the damp locks. “Tell me what happened.” He closed his eyes, whispering so that they couldn’t hear him out in the workshop. He told her about the race, about how Gloria had embarrassed him, the girl. He even told her about his naughtiness, how he hadn’t meant to be mean but was anyway, and how he’d pulled her hair at the end of the day. He wasn’t worried; Abuelita would keep his secrets.

“Am I a loser if I lose just one race?” he asked, fearing the answer. Abuelita soothed him gently, rocking him back and forth as he spoke. It wasn’t the old rocker in her bedroom, just a kitchen chair, but the sensation of movement still put him at ease. Berto and Gloria said it was silly to be held like that; only babies let their grannies hold them. But he knew they were just jealous, and besides—when Gloria had fallen off the ladder and twisted her ankle last month, Abuelita had rocked her too. She didn’t say a single thing about babies _then_. 

“Of course not, _mijo_.” She smiled, kissing his forehead. “Did you do your best?”

“ _S_ - _S_ _í_.”

“Then that’s what matters most. That’s all anyone can ask of you.” His teachers said the same thing at school, when they were about to take an important test or work on a big project. But they always said things like that at school, where it didn’t matter as much. Abuelita, however… when she said it, it sounded believable.  

“A-And… and just because I pull a girl’s hair, I don’t have to be her boyfriend, do I?” Abuelita laughed, but it wasn’t the same as when they’d laughed at him earlier.

“No. You don’t have to be her boyfriend unless you want to.”

“I don’t want to.” He sniffed again, letting the warmth of the kitchen surround him. It was nice, and he felt safe in Abuelita’s arms. Nothing could hurt him here, not even his siblings. “Why are Berto and Gloria so mean to me all the time? They always pick on me.”

“Oh, that’s what brothers and sisters do.” She laughed again. “It makes me jealous. I didn’t have _any_ brothers or sisters to tease. I could only tease my tíos; _they_ were so used to Mamá that they just laughed along with me.” 

“But they’re _mean_! I wish I was an only child.”

“Oh, that’s a bad wish.” Abuelita tutted, shaking her head slowly. “Why, when you get to be an adult, you will be so happy to have a brother and a sister. And besides, you pick on them too.”

“I don’t.” He leaned away, indignant. “I don’t pick on them at all!”

“Oh?” Abuelita’s eyes twinkled. “Do you remember when Gloria caught her hair in your Tía Victoria’s sewing machine?” He giggled at the memory. Mamá had to cut a big chunk of her hair off to get her free, and then evened the rest up to match.

“Yeah!”

“Poor Gloria.” Abuelita sighed. “Now… who called her _caballo_? I remember two little boys who made her cry. Who could they have been?” He winced. They had called her that, hadn’t they? Her hair had to be pushed all to one side, and it had looked just like a horse’s mane. With a cringe, he remembered that he’d been the first one to point it out. It _had_ seemed funny, at the time….

“Well—” He sobered up, biting his lower lip. “But that’s not—”

“And then last summer, when Berto stood too close to that bonfire and lost his eyebrows?” Abuelita laughed in her slow, soft way. “I remember very clearly that two _niños_ laughed at him for days. Called him _bola_.” He laughed again, despite himself. It wasn’t really fair; Berto’s head _had_ been very round, with no hair on his face and his head shaved for the summer. They’d threatened to use it as a cue ball, giggling until he chased them through the house and out the front gates.

“You know,” Abuelita said thoughtfully, still rocking him with small movements as she glanced at the stove. “When your mamá and tía were little girls, they teased each other all the time. They fought like cats and dogs, too!”

“Really?” Abuelita wouldn’t lie to him, but he could hardly believe it. Mamá and Tía Victoria were so close! They never raised their voices to each other, and there wasn’t much they disagreed on. Tía Victoria was so solemn and quiet; he couldn’t imagine her being a little girl, much less fighting with her sister.

“Oh, yes! They were always calling each other names, taking toys, tattling on each other, pulling hair and stealing clothes or hair ribbons.” She paused, grinning with a flicker of mischief. “Your Mamá Imelda would get tired of hearing them squabble, and your Papá Julio would have to march them to separate ends of the house for five minutes’ worth of peace.”

“Mamá and Tía Victoria? Were that bad?” He wiped his nose on his forearm, listening in awe. His mamá used to do the very things she fussed at her own children for doing?

“They were. And when they were in time-out, my own mamá and her brothers would start arguing over who got into the most trouble when _they_ were little. My own abuelita used to tell me how my tíos would torment Mamá, teasing her until she nearly beat them to death with her shoes! And they were two against one.” He felt a sudden solidarity towards Mamá Imelda, though he’d never known her before. If she had still been alive, she could have empathized with him. “Yes, they were a lot like Berto, Gloria, and you.”

“What happened?”

“Why, they grew up, _mijo_.” She smiled, resting her forehead against his affectionately. “When you are young, it seems natural to fight about these things. It feels unfair, sometimes. Especially when you don’t feel like your family understands you.” He nodded, leaning into her words. She spoke as if she understood. She always seemed to understand him, even when he didn’t understand himself. 

“But when you grow up, it’s a little silly to fight over those things. Oh sure, you will still find yourself in arguments. You’ll never agree on everything. But you will also find that the older you get, the easier it is to cling to your family.” She held his face in her hands, stroking his round cheek with fingers calloused by years of hard work. “Family is the most important thing in the world, Enrique. Never forget it.”

He nodded again. Abuelita said it to his mamá all the time, and Mamá Imelda had said it even before that. It had been passed down from generation to generation. One day, he could say the same thing to his own children… or maybe Berto’s children, since he wanted to be a cool tío instead of a papá.

“I know, Abuelita.” He reached up to stroke her weathered cheek, feeling her smile on his fingers. “Family always comes first.”

* * *

“I have a girlfriend.” Berto tossed him the baseball, which was really several pieces of notebook paper all balled up together. They weren’t allowed to play with the real baseball in the house; it could get loud, and loud things weren’t allowed whenever Tía Victoria had a headache. “I’ll tell you her name, if you don’t tell Gloria.”

“Okay.” Abuelita was right, as always. When Berto wasn’t being mean to him, he wasn’t such a bad brother to have around. It made him feel a little guilty that he’d wished to be an only child, no matter how briefly. They had to share a room, but Berto taught him about _béisbol_ and _fútbol_ , and had even promised after supper to show him how to run without getting super winded next weekend—it had to do something with breathing. “What’s her name?”

“Carmen.” Enrique tossed the ball back, going over the name in his head. _Car-men. Like Caramel. Caramelly Carmen._ Filing the potential teasing away for another day, he caught the ball as it rebounded off the wall.

“What does she look like?” Berto was laying on his back, staring up at a poster he’d tacked to the ceiling. He caught the ball idly, tossing it between his hands as he thought before sending it back in a clean arc between the beds.

“She’s got long hair. She’s pretty.” He paused. Catch. Toss. Throw. “When Tía Victoria finishes teaching me how to do huaraches, I’m going to make her pair.”

“Cool.” He tried to do a trick throw against the ceiling, and managed to knock Berto in the nose. “Oops. Sorry.” He ducked as a hardball sailed over his head, barely fast enough to make any noise as it smacked into the wall. It fell behind the bed and he dug his arm between the wall and the mattress, hand grasping for it.

“What’s your girlfriend like?”

“She’s _not_ my girlfriend.” The ball had come partly undone, and so he squashed it back together. It wasn’t very ball-shaped once he’d flattened it accidentally, but it still worked as he tossed it over. “But her name is Luisa, I guess. And no matter what anyone says: I let her win, okay?”

“Oh.” Berto yawned. “Okay. You won’t tell Gloria, will you?”

“Nah.” What they talked about in the bedroom stayed in the bedroom. It was unwritten code. But he didn’t blame Berto for asking. After all, he’d said lots of things to his brother that could have been disastrous if Gloria had found out. “Hey Berto?”

“Yeah?”

“When we get older, do you think we’ll still play like this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will we be close?”

“Huh?” He raised onto his elbows, making a face. “What are you talking about?”

“…Nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: This was a oneshot based on a prompt, but now it’s going to be a short story instead. I’m expanding on the concept, as they say. The prompt was an anonymous one, so whoever you were… I hope you enjoy this!  
> Also you can take Enrique’s love of his Mamá Coco and pry it from my cold dead hands.


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